


The Meat Locker

by CastielsShockBlanket



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-01-13 20:23:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1239595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CastielsShockBlanket/pseuds/CastielsShockBlanket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whilst chasing a cannibalistic serial killer, Sherlock and John end up locked in a freezer...with the murderer. Their only hope is for Lestrade to arrive and save the day, before they freeze to death, or worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"We're losing him, John!" Sherlock called from at least three yards ahead of John. Though already breathing heavily, John picked up speed and managed to stay about two steps behind Sherlock. That wasn't quite good enough, as he was still a good fifteen steps behind the target of their pursuit. 

Ahead of them was a man almost as tall as Sherlock, though not quite as lean. This man was sort of gangly, with stringy brown hair that reached past his shoulders and looked as though it hand't been washed or brushed in a good three years. He had a horrible overbite and tended to sneer and make terrible faces at people, which made John somewhat pleased that they were behind him and not in front of him. In sweatpants and a hoodie, and with twelve years on a track team, this man was slightly more suited to running long distances than Sherlock and John were, but they were gaining on him. The man was legally named Chuckey Wigglseworth, but the London Times had most recently dubbed him the Welsh Wendigo. He was guilty of ten reported murders, but Sherlock had suspected that he had gotten away with at least three others that went unnoticed by what he had referred to as "those moron's" but what was really called Scotland Yard.

By the time Sherlock and John were anywhere near catching up to him, Chuck Wigglseworth had swung open a door and slipped through, with no mind as to where it lead to. The door was half shut when they reached it, but Sherlock pushed it open again and wasted no time in following after the man ahead. "Don't let the door close, John!" He instructed quickly as John followed behind him. 

Unfortunately, his instruction had come a moment to late. All three of the men skidded to a halt as the  _thud_  of the thick metal door slamming shut filled the room, though Chuck had only stopped to avoid running into a wall. Sherlock whirled around, his heavy wool coat swishing behind him, and started immediately for the door. "We don't have the key, John, I said don't let it shut." Sherlock stated, not so much accusingly as irritably. The door, the only one in the entire room, was locked. Duly noting this particular fact, all three occupants of the room took it upon themselves to look around their surroundings. They were locked in what appeared to be a giant freezer, though it seemed a rather unorganised one. To the right large slabs of meat hung from hooks in the ceiling, a sight which was mostly unappealing. The far left, however, had something which seemed to be containers of ice cream. Meanwhile a thin metal table along the wall featured various kinds of fish. 

Being locked in was certainly a problem, being locked in with a cannibalistic serial killer was a bigger one. Sherlock and John, once done glancing about themselves, settled their eyes upon Chuck Wigglseworth across the room. No one, out of all three of them, were really sure what the proper thing to say in such a predicament would be. "I don't suppose you know where the key is, eh, Sherlock?" John asked, eyes darting to Sherlock, then warily back to Chuck. 

"You don't suppose correctly," Said Sherlock, offering a small smirk despite the circumstances. "Probably in the pocket of whoever owns this  _fine_ establishment." He added, though his tone didn't really imply that he actually thought the place was anywhere near being fine. As a matter of fact, he seemed to be rather contemptuous, a perfectly understandable reaction to the place. 

Chuck Wigglseworth frowned, leaned against the wall behind him and let out an annoyed groan.

"You should of thought of that when you ran." Remarked John irritably. Chuck glared at him, but otherwise made no reaction. Sighing heavily, John turned his head to the side and slightly up to look at Sherlock. "Er, have you got a plan?" He asked, slightly hopeful. Lestrade might or might not know where they had chased the suspect to, and either way he really didn't feel like spending any time locked in a giant freezer with someone who killed people just because. 

"We've been here for not even a minute, John. Be patient." Sherlock replied, taking a half step forward to peer a table in the centre of the room, cluttered with various frozen foods. He took another whole step and then turned to face the door, ice-cold eyes flickering from one spot to the other with more acuteness than an eagle looking for prey. The tension could have been cut with a knife, if they actually had one. Sherlock stalked closer to the door, looking at the handle with his magnifying glass and then at the lock. Concluding this minute examination, he stepped back from the door and turned so he could face both John and Chuck. "After looking at the the door closely and carefully, I can deduce that it is indeed locked. I told you not to let it shut, John." He said with an eloquent sort of flippancy.

John cleared his throat, crossing his arms both in irritation and due to the low temperature. "I know the door is locked Sherlock-" 

"Of course you do, I just told you." Sherlock interrupted with a smirk.

"Or because it wouldn't open." John replied, silently wishing he hadn't left his jacket at the place where the chase had started. "Anyway, I wanted a plan, Sherlock, not confirmation that the bloody door is locked." 

Nodding as though that had just been made clear, even though they all knew Sherlock had known this already, Sherlock turned back to the door. He looked at it for a split second before turning back to John. "Shut up, I need to go to my Mind Palace." He said, promptly turning away once more and shutting his eyes. 

John sauntered a few feet away, muttering just loud enough to be heard, "Let me check my Mind Palace for a shit to give." 

Chuck grinned at that, though he didn't comment on it. Instead he asked what exactly a Mind Palace was, and listened as John explained it with obvious annoyance. After explaining, the conversation died off, and Sherlock could be heard on the other end of the room, murmuring to himself. After a few moments of watching Sherlock think, Chuck snickered. "London's genius detective Sherlock Holmes, and a locked door's got him stymied." He said, crossing his arms. They were beginning to notice the cold a bit more, and his teeth chattered almost imperceptibly as he spoke. 

Despite the fact it was a murderer who had said it, John still found himself chuckling. His laughter was cut off, however, when Sherlock jumped up and turned to face them. "John, I've come up with a plan." He announced, taking a few steps nearer to them but not very many. 

"Well, what is it?" Asked John eagerly.

"You come up with the plan this time," Sherlock said, acting as though this were the most genius thing to ever be said in the history of genius things ever said. 

John frowned. He began to make an answer, changed his mind, shook his head, and started to answer again. He did that twice before actually articulating words. "Sherlock," He began, clenching his hands into fists at his sides. "That is not a plan, Sherlock. That's-" He heaved out a breath and rolled his head up to the ceiling, as though the answer were up there. "Surely you can't be serious?" He asked dubiously.

Sherlock furrowed his brows. "I am serious, John, and don't call me Sherly." He replied sarcastically. 

Finding this simply to much to really deal with, John attempted to object once or twice more before storming off back to the front of the room. Sherlock watched him stalk off, pressing his face against his shoulder to stifle his laughter. Chuck eyed him skeptically, nonchalantly taking a small step to the side. It was probably ironic that the serial killer found someone else insane, but no one stopped to question it. 

Sherlock returned to the front of the room as well after a minute or two, and sat down on the floor beside the door. "We'll just have to wait for Lestrade if we can't think of anything." He sighed, looking over at the door knob. 

After saying this, Sherlock proceeded to look at the door every five minutes, like looking at the door would increase the probability of it opening. John suggested calling somebody, but the battery of his phone had gone missing mysteriously, Chuck's phone was no where to be seen, and Sherlock's battery had died. The lot of them sighed heavily and went back to shivering in their spots on the concrete floor. 


	2. BORED

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trapped inside a meat locker with a serial killer and no hope of escaping, and Sherlock's bored.

The patient waiting for Lestrade had lasted about fifteen minutes at most, though it was likely less. Presently, Sherlock sighed heavily, glancing once more at the door as though willing it to open. John let out an even larger sigh, though it was interpreted as less angry than it was, as his teeth had begun to chatter non-stop. Probably assuming it was a sort of communal thing, Chuck looked from John to Sherlock and sighed with great exaggeration. Neither John nor Sherlock seemed to notice, however, as the former was busy shivering and the latter was occupying himself drumming his fingers on the cold concrete floor. That lasted for the remarkable length of about twenty seconds, before yet another sigh mingled with the constant teeth-chattering. (Most of which was coming from John and Chuck, as Sherlock was quite alright with his thick coat and scarf.) Miserably, John was rubbing his arms for warmth and glaring angrily from Chuck to Sherlock, both of whom he blamed whole-heartedly for their predicament. 

Even more miserable, perhaps, was Sherlock, even if he was the warmest. When he wasn't drumming his fingers, he was glancing at the door, which accomplished a whole lot of nothing. For what was at least the third time since their getting locked in the meat locker, Sherlock sighed. John, who had been angry-glaring at Chuck, turned his angry face towards Sherlock. "I'm bored." Sherlock stated curtly, his ton nothing like the expected one of someone stuck in a confined space with a cannibal. Of course, whatever Sherlock did was never like the expected. But his reaction to the meat locker seemed a bit much to John, whose angry stare grew even angrier. 

Noticing this particular facial expression, Sherlock knitted his brows in faint confusion at John. 

John, who did not look very menacing despite his best angry face, as he was currently hugging his arms to his knit-sweater-wearing self, continued to glare at Sherlock. Sherlock was irresistibly reminded of an angry hedgehog, but he forced back the impulse to smile at the image. 

"Bored?" Asked John incredulously, though it was more of a statement.

Sherlock offered a minimal nod.

"Bored." John repeated, with a sort of why-did-I-expect-any-different sigh. Teeth still chattering, John tucked his legs up to his chest for extra warmth. This time Sherlock smirked at the hedgehog image, but he turned his face before John could notice. "We're locked in a meat locker," John carried on angrily, his fury made considerably less intimidating by the clicking of his teeth as he shivered. "And Sherlock Holmes, is  _bored? !_ :" 

"That's what I just said, the cold's not affecting your hearing, is it?" Sherlock replied, feigning concern. Chuck chuckled, but quickly shut up when John shot a glare at him. Rolling his eyes at the conversation, Sherlock leaped to his feet, spinning around to take in the surroundings once again. Unfortunately, there were still no alternative exits to be found. As was characteristic of him, Sherlock took up pacing, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. "Why's Lestrade not here yet? He should have arrived, even factoring the usual London traffic, at least fifteen minutes ago. Of course, it is Scotland Yard, but even they ought to be able to pick up the clues our trail left...." 

"Well I guess we shouldn't have gone after the psychotic murderer on our own, without calling the officials!" At the adjective psychotic, Chuck had offered some objection or other, and Sherlock and John both whipped around to tell him to shut up, then carried on as usual. "But no, calling the officials is to  _dull_ for the great Sherlock Holmes! So now we're locked in here, with this lunatic!" John bore on, gesturing to Chuck. Lunatic seemed to be going a bit far, as Chuck had done nothing but laugh at their bickering so far, but he was a cannibal after all....

Sherlock feigned an indignant gasp, as though he were offended by the ravings of John. "If I recall correctly, you were the one who let the door close." Sherlock replied, jabbing an index finger in the air at John.

"He is right." Said Chuck.

"Shut  _up!_ " Said Sherlock and John in unison. 

Sighing yet again, Sherlock turned away from both John and Chuck and resumed his pacing. With a thoughtful frown, he stalked over to the area with a tall metal table and looked down at it. Probably subconsciously, he began spouting off deductions about whoever owned the freezer. John cut him off, not really caring that the cook who got food from the place also kept two cats and a Capuchin monkey. "Look, Sherlock, _you're_ the one who said we should be p-patient." He said matter-of-factly, rubbing his arms up and down to warm himself up, rather unsuccessfully.

Sherlock seemed surprised to have his deductions cut off mid-stream, but blinked and became "normal" again. He resumed his pacing, apparently having also lost interest in the Capuchin monkey. "I can't be patient, Lestrade should have gotten here by now. Patience is so dreadfully dull." He responded, his tone implying that this settled the matter. John seemed to disagree, but he seemed to have grown so cold that he couldn't formulate a legitimate response. 

With a deep breathe, Sherlock removed his scarf and tossed it absent-mindedly to John. Though not expecting this, John caught the scarf and wrapped it around his own neck, offering a one-worded thanks which Sherlock promptly ignored entirely. There was suddenly a loud crash to break in upon the silence, causing Sherlock and John to visibly jump as they spun to find the source of the sound. Chuck smiled feebly from where he sit, covered in a variety of vegetables and a small table which had spilled over him. Why this had happened, exactly, didn't seem to matter much. The disappointment that this had not been some miraculous rescue was clear upon John's face, as both he and Sherlock turned back to what they had been doing. Chuck could be heard faintly in the distance, chewing innocently on a carrot and mumbling about how human flesh was much more appetizing. 

Sherlock frowned to himself, though his own mumbling was suddenly quiet. The only noise left in the room was Chuck, and the slightly less severe chattering of John's teeth. 

"Ah!" Exclaimed Sherlock rather suddenly, causing Chuck and John to look up eagerly. "No." He added after a moment, shaking his head side to side. Chuck and John frowned, and went back to shivering in their respective corners. This occurred about five more times before John threatened to punch Sherlock if he got his, John's, hopes up one more time. 

Sherlock flopped onto the floor again, not unlike a cat, and picked up muttering to himself from there. 

It was going to be a long day.


	3. Chapter 3

"Sh-sherlock? How's that escape plan coming?" John asked from where he was huddled, arms rubbing up and down one another vigorously. It wasn't like the temperature could have dropped, but he was getting colder and colder the longer they sat there. Of course, after the twenty-minute speech from Sherlock about what happened to molecules, or was it atoms?, when they got cold, the temperature was so much less appetizing. Not because the science disturbed John or anything, he just didn't want to hear Sherlock rant about chemistry anymore. Hence, he interrupted with a fairly inane question. 

Sherlock sighed deeply in response to the question, irritated at having his scientific explanation cut off. "Why have I always got to make up the escape plan, John?" He asked irritably, rotating on his heel to face the little hedgehog man. "Why don't you try thinking for a change? Then you'll see why this situation is not so easy as you think." He said, turning back to pacing. He paced a couple steps before turning back to John. "Do I complain when you're doing your  _blogging?_ " Asked Sherlock rhetorically, to prove some point. 

John furrowed his brows. "Er, you do, actually." He answered. 

In response, Sherlock frowned. "Oh, I do, don't I...Well that's because you do it wrong." He said, turning to pace some more. 

John shook his head and pulled his limbs closer to his body, teeth chattering. He didn't know why Sherlock couldn't just sit still for five minutes, the pacing was annoying. Then, Sherlock probably wasn't even that cold, given his thick wool coat. No, he was just bored. Which left John to wonder what would be more tormenting; freezing to death, or being locked in a room with a bored Sherlock. After contemplating for a couple minutes, he decided on the latter. At least freezing would be quieter. 

From his own respective corner, Chuck sat up. "Well, what if we-" He started. 

"SHUT UP!" John and Sherlock both snapped in unison. 

Chuck frowned and looked down at his hands which were folded in his lap, grumbling to himself. Sherlock sped up his pacing, drumming his fingers behind his back. He murmured under his breath for a good fifteen minutes, and nobody else said a word. "Are you sure-" Started Chuck again, earning a fierce glare from both Sherlock and John. He shut his mouth once more, and resumed grumbling to himself. He could faintly be heard mumbling, "Just because you kill people, no one wants to listen. Well maybe I'll eat you with special sauce. Maybe then you'd listen...." 

John knitted his brows in confusion, glancing over at Chuck and then looking back forward dubiously. "But how could I listen if I were dead?" He asked, honestly confused. 

"I won't eat your ears, then!" Chuck answered, childishly sticking his tongue out at John.

Frowning, John scooted a little closer to the wall, further away from Chuck. He continued to chatter his teeth, and the two psychopaths in the room continued to mutter under their breath.  _Not a psychopath,_ Sherlock's voice reverberated in his skull.  _High-functioning sociopath_. John sighed heavily, wondering why he couldn't have met a normal person to flatshare with. No, of course he gets stuck with someone like Sherlock. Really, he should have seen it coming when they first met. Who names their kid Sherlock? But that wasn't enough, and he ended up sharing a flat with a crazy person. 

Then, the most miraculous this happened. The door swung open, and Lestrade was standing in the doorway, Sally Donovan behind him. 

John leapt up, as did Chuck, and Sherlock whirled to face the door. "Took you long enough." Sherlock grumbled, starting for the door. 

Lestrade held up a hand. "You three were really locked in here?" He asked disbelievingly. "For  _two hours_." 

John merely nodded. Donovan and Lestrade exchanged glances, and then burst into laughter. Sherlock looked offended and John looked confused, well, more confused than usual. "I don't understand." John mumbled, looking from Sally to Lestrade. "What's so funny?"

The two officials had settled down until John asked, and then they began to laugh again. "The door wasn't locked!" Donovan replied through her laughter. "Didn't you think to try the door? Or did you just assume you were stuck?" 

Sucking in an indignant breath, John looked down at the ground. "Oh, I'm gonna kill you."


End file.
